


Wizard 1.0

by kingsman_heaven (modestlobster)



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Crossdressing, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Flowers, Fluff, Gaelic Language, Gen, Haircuts, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, Injury Recovery, Innuendo, London, M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit (Kingsman), POV Merlin (Kingsman), References to ABBA, Rugby, Scotland, Sports, Stress Baking, Wizard of Oz References, Young Merlin (Kingsman)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-09-12 17:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16876707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modestlobster/pseuds/kingsman_heaven
Summary: In the event that something were to happen to him in the line of duty, Merlin created a computer programme for his sister and her family to access his personal files: texts, documents, photos, videos — records of his real life — the life beyond the confidentiality of Kingsman anyway.—Merlin-centric excerpts from a larger collaborative work. Enjoying it? Trying to gauge interest for posting the full work.Tags and rating updated with each chapter.CH1: G. Merlin becomes an uncle.CH2: T. Merlin makes shortbread. Background M/M (Merwin, Merlahad, or Hartwin -- Pick your poison...) if you want it.CH3: G. Merlin and Harry in a graveyard.CH4: M. Merlin does the London Triathlon and Harry watches. Merlahad subtext if you want it.CH5: T. Young Merlin. In a dress. Playing rugby.CH6: T. Merlin, Harry, and some hair clippers from Harrods. Implied Merlahad.CH7: T. Harry helps Merlin back to his apartment after surgery; they each have a gift for the other. Implied Merlahad.





	1. Glasgow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: General — Category: Gen  
> Characters: Merlin, OFC  
> Tags: Scotland, Young Merlin, Family Fluff, Pre-Kingsman, Pre-Kingsman: TSS

Query: Glasgow

 

_> Here is the bird that never flew / Here is the tree that never grew / Here is the bell that never rang / Here is the fish that never swam _

_> Glasgow (The Dear Green Place; Scots: Glesga; Scottish Gaelic: Glaschu): The most populous city in Scotland; port city on the River Clyde._

_> Record created: more than 23 years ago. Record category: Personal; Family. Record location: Princess Royal Maternity Hospital. Alexandra Parade, Glasgow G31 2ER._

 

[Two files open automatically, a separate video feed and an audio file. The quality is poor by today’s standards, but brilliant for a time when not everything could be concealed in spectacle frames:

 _“Lovely. Jus’ a lovely wee thing.” Merlin quietly contemplates the swaddled infant he is holding on his lap, “…Tha’s what I’m supposed t’ say, aye?” He looks to the woman sitting in the hospital bed — the exhaustion in her features mixes with a fond amusement._  
  
_“Ha’e we finally found somethin’ ye don’t know **ev’rything** about, Hamish?” _

_Merlin huffs out an embarrassed laugh, “How obvious is it tha’ I’m petrified righ’ now?”_  
  
_“Pale as a ghost.” She smiles, “Bu’ you’ll be fine. Best Uncle in the British Isles — I‘ve already nominated ye fer it.”_  
  
_His gaze returns to the newborn; his sister continues her chatter:_  
  
_“Thanks much for th’ wee knitted cap ye brought — bit sick of all th’ pink an’ blue ev’rywhere on th’ ward.” The newborn made a face as if in accord. “Now how’s tha' new job of yours goin’? We’ve no’ really heard from ye since London swallowed ye righ’ up…” ]_

 

_> End record._


	2. Gran’s Shortbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen — Category: Gen, but with implied M/M if you want it (Take your pick: Merlin/Eggsy, Merlin/Harry, Harry/Eggsy)  
> Characters: Merlin, Eggsy  
> Tags: Domestic Fluff, Stress Baking, Fluff and Angst, Post-Kingsman: TSS, Pre-Kingsman: TGC

_> Next record (Category: Personal): Gran’s Shortbread_

  
[A scanned image of a well-used hand-written recipe card. A video opens as well, and plays a direct feed recorded from Merlin’s glasses. He is in a kitchen, clearly at home:  
  
_“Get out, if y’ can’t keep quiet,” — there’s a growl in Merlin’s voice as he opens a low cupboard, but it’s all for show, no menace to it —“Can’t ha’e y’ spoiling th’ video.”_  
  
_“Yeah improving it, ‘s more like.” The voice of a younger man teases from off-camera whilst Merlin pulls out a bowl and a flat metal tray, “Can’t believe Harry never reported you to Arthur, misuse of company tech an’ all. Honestly, guv, get yourself a Go-Pro — you can afford it.”_  
  
_“Out.” Merlin re-orders, opening a drawer of utensils and implements._  
  
_“What’s it this time anyway — MasterChef audition?” The voice scoffs, “C’mon, not them biscuits again…”_  
  
_Merlin fingers the large santoku knife._  
  
_“…You know I can’t resist ‘em — tryna give me a coronary?”_  
  
_In one fluid movement, Merlin grabs the knife and flings it over his shoulder, without even a glance backward. Ample swearing accompanies the sound of the blade lodging into the wall._  
  
_“Alright — made your point, guv."_  
  
_A door closes._  
  
_“Finally some peace an’ quiet, aye…” Merlin retrieves the dry ingredients from the pantry. “It’s time I recorded this, for posterity sake… Gran would come back an’ kill me if I never passed this on.”_  
  
_The last thing Merlin pulls out is a beurrier Breton dish._  
  
_“Now, first things first. Butter — **properly** soft." Merlin opens the beurrier. "That is, **no’** melted. Put it near a pre-heating oven if y’ must. Or just wait it out. But don’t y’ dare microwave it.”]_

* * *

[A new video; but a continuation on of the previous:  
  
_Butter already in the mixing bowl, Merlin measures out sugar and adds it in._  
  
_“Now this,” Merlin picks up a wooden spoon, “Is th’ next lesson: Home-made biscuits are done by **hand,** aye… Specialty equipment,” Merlin glances at a Kenwood mixer in the corner on the bench, “—is for th’ field, **not** home baking.”_  
  
_He begins to cream the butter and sugar together. “Gran always said a wooden spoon is best — especially t’ whip misbehavin’ boys back into shape…”_  
  
_Merlin clears his throat. “…No' tha’ she knew any, of course."_  
  
_There is a muffled interjection from the other room: “Granny sounds a bit of a violent one, bruv.”_  
  
_“An’ now you know where I get it from!” Merlin calls back, a grin in his tone. He opens a bottle of almond extract now, and pours some in._  
  
_“This is th’ next secret, aye.” His voice lowers a bit, “Don’t tell tha' git out there — but we always wondered whether th' almonds were so Gran could sneak cyanide in a batch for her enemies."_  
  
_Merlin finishes mixing. “How’s that look?”]_

* * *

[Next video:  
  
_Merlin's adding flour. “Ev’ryone always asked what Gran’s secret was — an' she’d lie right t’ their faces, tell them it was,” (his voice goes shrill in imitation) “ ‘jus’ an extra spoonful o’ love’ — or something sickly like tha’.”_  
  
_The spoon returns to the mix, prodding the flour into the mixture._  
  
_“But what th’ real trick was — not almonds or cyanide — it was in th’ mixing. Nothing sweet an’ loving about it — she’d curse an’ swear an’ put all her frustrations into it…" Merlin goes silent while he mixes, except for some grunts of exertion as the flour incorporates._  
  
_“Gives y’ time t’ think about people y’ miss, things y’ did wrong…" He falters for a moment, then gives the dough a good thrashing; mutters some choice expletives under his breath._  
  
_“Reminds y’ that y’re alive — an’ living is painful an’ exhausting — but it’s worth it. An’ it gives y’ something — experience — t’ share with others.” The dough finally comes together into a cohesive ball. “Think y’ could get anywhere with a batch of these…"_  
  
The video ends.]

* * *

_> Your current status has been upgraded to: Standard Access._

  
[A new clip starts, an unedited segment from the previous video:  
  
_“Gives y’ time t’ think about people y’ miss… Things y’ did wrong…" Merlin falters for a moment, then there’s a soft knock on the door; the other voice returns:_  
  
_“Merlin, I was jus’ thinkin’— do you hafta make biscuits every fuckin’ time you go off to Glasgow — is it like, a condition of entry when you get off the plane?”_  
  
_Merlin stabs the forming dough — irritation at the interruption — but he tries to keep his tone light, “Aye, it’s a special code in it — known only t’ Scottish elite ******.” _  
  
_“Alright, figured it was that — or else you were feelin’ like havin’ a cry over Harry again.”_  
  
_Merlin keeps stirring. It’s a wee bit of a surprise that the wooden spoon doesn’t simply shatter into splinters._  
  
_“Need some help with that, guv?”_  
  
_“I know exactly where ev’ry other knife is in this house.”_  
  
_“I miss ‘im, too, guv. You’re not alone in that.”_  
  
_The door closes, then Merlin gives the dough a good thrashing; mutters some choice expletives under his breath._  
  
_“Reminds y’ that you’re alive — an’ living is painful an’ exhausting — but it’s worth it."_  
  
The clip ends.]

* * *

[The final video in the query:  
  
_Dough in a lump on a greased baking tray; Merlin goes over to turn on the oven, then crouches and selects a bottle of wine out of a well-stocked liquor cabinet. “Always pays t’ ha’e a red on hand just for emergencies.”_  
  
_He uses the bottle as a rolling pin, flattening the dough into one large rectangle, a bit shy of the edges of the tray. He pulls a knife out and scores a loose crosshatched pattern of diagonal lines on top of the dough before properly slicing it into separate small rectangles. The result is two dozen Scottish flags._  
  
_“Services staff love a little patriotism,” Merlin thinks aloud, adding, “Gran always said ‘it’s all in th' wee details’.”_  
  
_Merlin moves the tray into the hot oven, the heat fogging up his glasses. “That’s all t’ it. They cook. You eat.”_  
  
_The video gets fitful as he removes the glasses to wipe the condensation off. Merlin huffs out a laugh, “Or take them t’ Glasgow an’ see how far they get you.”_  
  
_Merlin reinstates his glasses, and calls out to the other room: “Twenty minutes, lad.”_  
  
_“Can you go that long, guv, without you throwin' another knife at my head?” is the muted reply._  
  
_“Mm, that's pushing it, aye.” Merlin remarks to himself._  
  
The feed ends.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** #Bakingsman


	3. Gravestone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: General — Category: Gen (but with some Merlin/Harry subtext if you want it)  
> Characters: Merlin, Harry  
> Tags: Scotland, Fluff and Angst (?), Pre-Kingsman: TSS

_> Next record (Category: Personal): Gravestone_

  
  
[Another video recorded from Merlin’s Kingsman glasses:  
  
_A sweeping view of the Highlands from the cemetery of a small church on a hill._  
  
_“Stunning.” It’s Harry’s voice, somewhere behind him._  
  
_Merlin sets a small spray of bluebells on a gravestone. “No’ a bad place for a little family reunion.”_  
  
_“…Do you wish to be buried here with them?”_  
  
_“Can’t imagine it’s likely, in our line, t’ end up as anything t’ be buried.” Merlin places a button from a suit jacket on another grave. “But I’ll organise something.”_  
  
_“Formally?”_  
  
_“Aye, already done. Will Services, Glasgow.”_  
  
_There is silence. Only wind rippling through the kirkyard; a storm brewing._  
  
_Then Merlin clears his throat, “Maybe I should ha’e an epitaph ready, jus’ in case. Something like:_  
  
**_Here lies dear Hamish,_**  
**_Always quite th’ dish he was,_**  
_**Th’ one best served cold**.”_  
  
_"Good god,” Harry scoffs, “Well, let’s hope you live forever so no one has to suffer that… Or maybe I'm best just to take you out right now. None such the wiser.”_  
  
_“Murder generally precludes inheritance." Merlin's grinning. "An' trust me, y' don't want a Scottish ghost.”_  
  
End video.]


	4. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Mature — Category: Gen (but with some M/M subtext (Merlin/Harry) if you want it)  
> Characters: Merlin, Harry  
> Tags: London, Triathlon, Pre-Kingsman: TSS

_> Record retrieved for adjacent syntax query ‘Cold’:_

  
  
[A recording from a Kingsman glasses HUD, but not Merlin’s — _because here’s Hamish now, struggling out of the top half of his wetsuit, and removing goggles and a branded swim cap, as he jogs through to the transition area of the London Triathlon to get to his bike. Which happens to be exactly where the camera view is originating from._  
  
_“Looking rather peaky…” Harry Hart is providing the unbiased commentary here today._  
  
_Hamish scowls cordially, bare chest still heaving of exertion, as he finishes stripping off his wetsuit, down to the lycra cycling shorts underneath._  
  
_A subtle glance down, then back up to Hamish’s tense and rather preoccupied expression. “So, was it cold?” Harry Hart, witty conversationalist._  
  
_Whatever 4-letter word was on Hamish’s tongue gets swallowed into his cycling shirt as he pulls it on over his head. He emerges through the holes, properly composed. “No’ quite enough t’ clench a polar bear’s cheeks.”_  
  
_“Lovely… And what about a Scotsman’s?”_  
  
_“Best y’ check when I ride out, aye…” Hamish pulls on a cycling helmet. His tone grows serious for a moment, “Arthur said anythin’?”_  
  
_There’s a notification in the glasses display that’s being ignored._  
  
_“Just… ‘Good luck’.”_  
  
_“No emergencies then…” Hamish clips the helmet clasp under his chin._  
  
_The notification icon blinks again, more urgently._  
  
_“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Harry scoffs. “And I sincerely hope you weren’t thinking about… **work** , the entire time whilst you were trying not to drown.”_  
  
_“Aye, only for th’ first 33 minutes, I hope.” Hamish slips on some sleek sunglasses with built-in corrective lenses._  
  
_“Mm.” Harry consults a lap timing function that appears briefly in the display. “And what did you think about for the other 27 seconds?”_  
  
_“Tha' I was freezin’ my bollocks off.” Hamish pulls the bike off the rack and mounts it. “Right, see y’ in an hour-twenty, if my legs hav’nae fallen off as well.”_  
  
_“No, I suspect it’ll be the 10K run that does that.” Harry offers cheerfully._  
  
_“Something t' look forward t', aye.” Hamish takes off, briefly standing up on the pedals to adjust his seat position — or to give Harry his opportunity for evaluation._  
  
_“Cheeky arse…” Harry huffs, then clears his throat. “—No, not you, Arthur.”_

  
The video ends.]


	5. Aberdeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen — Category: Gen  
> Characters: Merlin, OFC  
> Tags: Young Merlin, Scotland, Rugby, Crossdressing, Pre-Kingsman, Pre-Kingsman: TSS

_> Restart query retrieval for Category: Personal, index resumed alphabetically. _  
  
_> First record (Category: Personal): Aberdeen_

  
  
[Hand-held camcorder footage:

_Looks like a typical club level rugby union match, particularly well-attended today._

_Typical — except the pitch at Aberdeen is a blur of wild colour._

_Because the blokes are in frocks. All of ‘em. Even the refs._  
  
_Signs everywhere; this is a charity fundraiser. But it’s still a rugby match: the players aren’t holding back just because their frills are showing._  
  
_There’s a punt to the sideline. A line-out to the boys in blue-striped socks; red stripes convened in defense._

 _The throw goes in; up goes a tall lad in an emerald colour high-neck, sleeveless number._  
  
_“ **Yeahhh, Hamish!** Hands on it, laddie boy!” shouts the woman operating the camera; Hamish's sister, young again. “Aw, how d’ye work this funt of a thin’, Hame…”_

 _She finally manages the zoom just as Hamish gets swallowed into the midst of a maul; he’s soon spit out the side of the mass of ruched up bodies, scrambling back around to get a pick of the ball again._  
  
_He gets the blindside hand-off and then — “Aw, mind yer chebs!” — gets brutally side-clocked. The game continues on without a hitch, but the camera is fixed on the emerald green casualty blending in with the turf._  
  
_“Aye, get up, numpty boy…” A hiss to the camera; Hamish makes an attempt to sit up, but it’s clear his left leg isn’t interested in complying with any instructions. Just as well the mic’s too far away to pick up the four-letter words on his lips as he slumps back to earth._  
  
_“Feckin’ scunner.” A jostled view of a sea of legs, feet, finally turf, as the camera is carried along wholly forgotten, until it makes the sideline._  
  
_Hamish gets his close-up. A solid, strapping young man, with quite the shock of dark hair (only starting to recede above the temples, if you really look for it); and someone’s done a garish job on his face with cheap cosmetics, all starting to run from sweat, and the pain leaking out from the corners of his eyes, and a bit of blood over his eyebrow, sliced on someone else’s rhinestones. Half the pearls embroidered around his neckline are gone, embedded now in Aberdeen’s turf._  
  
_He gets a nudge from his sister’s shoe. His eyes open. The dress complements them quite well._  
  
_“Pale as a ghost, Hame…”_  
  
_“…Told th’ boys they’d done th’ corset up too tight.” Hamish gives a pained smile. One of the pitch medics arrives to check him over._  
  
The video ends.]


	6. Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen — Category: M/M implied  
> Characters: Merlin, Harry  
> Tags: Younger Merlin, Younger Harry, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, Pre-Kingsman: TSS, haircuts, ABBA

[Two video streams play simultaneously, side by side.

In the right, _a younger Hamish inspects his receding hairline in the bathroom wall mirror, combing back the thinning hair on the crown of his head with his fingers, a somewhat nauseous look on his face. The rest of the tiny en-suite can be seen in the reflection; it already looks quite dated even for its time, and it sports the bare minimum to be considered a creature comfort in accommodations._

In the video on the left, _svelte hands paw through a stack of records in the chintzy studio room adjoining._

_“Are you sure you want to do this?” Harry Hart’s voice. His fingers pluck out a vinyl of ABBA and place it reverently in the record player before setting the needle._

_“Aye, it’s jus’ hair,” Hamish huffs out, then swipes his hand over the fogged-up glass in front of him as he retreats from the reflection, letting his sparse locks fall back into their place, only just covering his pate. “An’ it’s no’ convincing anyone anymore, is it…”_

_He takes his glasses off and sets them on the counter, so there’s now a clearer view of the awful greenish space — and part of Hamish’s torso (notably quite absent of any scar on his abdomen) as he unbuttons his shirt and slings it over the door. “Christ, turn tha’ shite off.”_

_Harry sniffs. “If it’s such shite, whatever is it doing in your collection?” He turns the volume knob up a fraction, out of spite._

_“It’s **your** record, Cridhe…” _

_Harry sniffs again, admitting nothing. “Shall I put Freddie on, then?”_

_“Would y’ jus’ get ov’r here." Hamish inclined his head toward the door. "An’ bring th’ Harrods with y’.”_

_Harry’s glasses give a lovely panorama view of the flat’s garish decor and furnishings — broken up by Hamish’s interior design features of various piles of tech and equipment in various states of (dis)repair and modification. Harry sidles up to the conspicuous Harrods bag on the counter, retrieving the newly purchased electric clippers from their box and finally joining Hamish in the en-suite._

_Harry jiggles the plug into the socket and turns the buzzing apparatus on then off again. “Afraid I’ve not exactly done this before.”_

_Hamish casts a wary glance back from where he’s leaning over the vanity, head over the basin in preparation. “Neither’ve I…” A slow cheeky grin now, “But when’s tha’ ev’r stopped us, aye?”_

_The clippers go on again._

_Hamish’s glasses on the vanity counter capture the rise and fall of his breath in his doubled over chest whilst his hair drifts down in tufts into the sink. The other view follows Harry’s hands as they carefully roam and guide the cutters against every last strand._

_Hamish’s lips start moving, repeating a phrase, but his words seem to be drowned out by the Swedes warbling in the other room and the electric din over his head._

_Until Harry finishes and switches the shears off. Then it’s just Waterloo._

_Harry clears his throat, “Come again?”_

_He gently sweeps the stray hairs off Hamish’s neck and shoulders._

_“I said…” Hamish stands, one hand reflexively running over his scalp, brows furrowed. “I said… I’m moving out.” He fumbles his glasses back onto his face._

_Both men look a somewhat ghastly shade of green and it’s really nothing to do with the wall colour._

_“Tha’s…” Hamish cleared his throat, “Tha’s about it.”_

_“…Well… Where?” Harry blinks quite a few times._

_“No’ sure. Jus’ somewhere tha’s less likely t’ be under Arthur’s surveillance.” Hamish swallows, “An’ I though’ tha’… maybe… maybe **we** can get a place of our own… t’gether…”_

 

End playback.]


	7. Housing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen — Category: M/M implied  
> Characters: Merlin, Harry  
> Tags: Younger Merlin, Younger Harry, Pre-Kingsman: TSS, Injury Recovery, Flowers, Gaelic Language, Wizard of Oz References

Query: 'Housing' — record retrieved:

 

[The feed is from Harry’s perspective _: He is following several steps behind Hamish, up a claustrophobic little stairwell. Hamish’s loose clothing is much too casual to be his own accoutrement; it makes him look even more gaunt than he already is. And he is making quite a meal of his ascension._

_“Let’s not forget who’s the stubborn arse that insisted on the stairs, hm?” Harry offered up whilst Hamish paused, leaning heavily onto the banister, just a few steps from reaching the landing._

_“I’m no’ subjecting myself t’ tha’ feck of a lift.” Hamish grizzled back, closing his eyes against a spasm, some mix of pain and exhaustion. “On a good day, makes me want t’ heave my guts.”_

_Harry sidled up next to his partner, their hands meeting just briefly on the railing. He softened, his tone a bit kinder and caring, “God, look how puffed you are…”_

_Hamish looked drawn and miserable. And stubborn. And snide. “Well maybe y’ could’ve at least offered t’ carry me.”_

_“Mm. Over the threshold’s a bit much.” Harry quibbled, shifting a sturdy arm around to support Hamish’s ambulation, careful to give broad clearance to the swath of medical supplies holding his Scotsman together at the abdomen, somewhere underneath all his tatty garb. “And I know how frightfully heavy you are. But I **am** a gentleman —” He got Hamish to the landing for his floor. “— I can at least get the door.”_

_They made it through and down the corridor toward Hamish’s latest flat, silently save for some broguish whimpers that Harry was tactfully choosing to pretend not to hear. Hamish suddenly stopped short and Harry followed his interrogative gaze to the slim white-papered parcel that was tucked at the door handle._

_“It’s alright,” Harry murmured, “It’s from me.”_

_Harry watched Hamish steady himself against the wall with a slump, then quite delicately pluck at the parcel’s paper._

_Hamish’s brows furrowed as a small bit of card fell out and onto the ground. “When did y’…”_

_Harry retrieved the note, calligraphied simply with the words ‘Welcome Home’, and returned it to his Scot. “I easily could have been up and down the lift a dozen times, and to the corner shop, in the time that it took you to do the bloody stairs.”_

_Hamish pursed his lips in thought, a hint of a smile betraying him. “So where are th’ other eleven bouquets, then?”_

_Harry sniffed in affront. “Look, I already put my head on a platter just for **those** poxy posies.”_

_Hamish did smile then, shaking his head. “Christ, how **do** y’ get bluebells out of season…”_

_“Arthur knew a man, who knows a man.” The feed tilted as Harry inclined his head towards the door and he wagged his hand impatiently at the lock. He didn’t have Hamish’s keys._

_Hamish’s face paled incrementally and he swallowed. “…Arthur.”_

_“It’s fine. I told him it was for a mark…” Harry cleared his throat. “Honeypot to impress.”_

_Hamish huffed a laugh as he fumbled in his trouser pocket for the keys. “Always on a mission, aye, Cridhe.”_

_(Harry didn’t even have to switch to thermal imaging mode to know the Scotsman’s ears were burning red.)_

_“Seems I have to be, if I want to be sure you come home at all, much less safe and sound.”_

_“We both know tha’ll be my last in th’ field… T’ even get here…” Hamish was staring at the key clenched between his thumb and forefinger, a tight fist around the attached fob. “ ‘Am fear as fhaide a chaidh on taigh 's e an ceòl a bu bhinne a chuala e a-riamh — ‘Tiugainn Dhachaigh’. ”_

_“Oh dear, who knew that gut surgery had a direct affect on the language processing centres of the brain.” Sarcastic, but fond — Harry was impatient at best when it came to Hamish waxing poetic in Gaelic (although, he wouldn’t admit, but he could listen to it all day)._

_“ ‘To he who has travelled the furthest, the sweetest music he can ever hear are the words — ‘Come home.’ ”_

_“Ah. Scottish for ‘There’s no place like home.’ You could’ve just said, Wizard.”_

_“Well, Dorothy. Funny y’ should say…” Hamish held out his hand to Harry, the key attached to a small pewter Scottie dog. “Toto. He’s yours.”_

_“Oh. Well. This is…” Harry’s fingertips rested on the gifted key. “…But I suppose you know that Toto was actually a Cairn Terrier.”_

_Hamish’s expression flat-lined crossly. “Och, get stuffed, y’ cockerel.”_

_Harry quickly pinched the key away, before the Scot could change his mind. “Don’t make threats unless you plan on following through —” ]  
_

 

Record paused.


End file.
